


Out Of Touch, Just Let It Go

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Captain America (Movies), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Awesome Sam Wilson, Awkwardness, Banter, Bars and Pubs, Best Friends, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Crying, Culture Shock, Declarations Of Love, Dreams and Nightmares, Drinking & Talking, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extended Metaphors, Families of Choice, Fix-It of Sorts, Flirting, Frenemies, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Headaches & Migraines, Healing, Hugs, Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory Related, Movie Reference, New York City, Nightmares, Old Friends, POV Bucky Barnes, Panic Attacks, Pop Culture, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Precious Peter Parker, Psychological Trauma, Roommates, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Strained Friendships, Survivor Guilt, Swearing, Team as Family, Trauma, Veterans, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26435170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: "I'm Wade," he's grinning easy, but also as if he's baring his teeth at Bucky, as if he can tell that he is broken, a rabid wild animal beyond saving, beyond anyone's control. Bucky has believed this of himself, he's known it to be true ever since he came back.Yet here this guy is, bright white teeth, muscle-bound, with almost a crew cut if it weren't for the scars cutting over his face and head that seem to make hair growth impossible (opposite of Bucky's issue, he grows too MUCH hair) - holding out his hand like he wants Bucky to actually shake it. " - are you going to introduce yourself and shake my hand or not, bucko? I'm very big on politeness. I'm Canadian," he adds as if that explains anything. Bucky clenches his jaw."It's Bucky," he growls.".. Well Bucky of the steel blues where home is, you gonna shake hands civilized or are we going to go our separate ways after beating each other to a pulp in an alley?"(Of strange interactions, the depths of friendship, and unlikely ways to heal the wounds of mind, heart, and time.Or Bucky meets and interacts with Deadpool - and finds a family, somehow, in the traumatic darkness)
Relationships: Dopinder (Marvel) & Wade Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Shuri, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Wade Wilson - Deadpool
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

_Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood. Hop a flight to Miami Beach or to Hollywood.... But I'm takin' a Greyhound on the Hudson River line, I'm in a New York state of mind._

Bucky wishes he was one of those. The sort of person who could choose to leave a place of his own volition. And not for a job, not because someone on Hydra's radar needed ... handling. Not because he was tasked to do his particular brand of lethal work. No, he doesn't do that anymore. He is not that person anymore. He is not the Winter Soldier, he is James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky. He has always been partial to that nickname more than anything shortening James. Can't handle Jim or Jimmy, or even Sergeant Barnes - thought he would like that once he got into the Army, but he hadn't. He's always liked, has always been Bucky - or Buck; but only Steve was ever, had ever been allowed to use the latter. Anybody else he wanted to get to know, anyone who would be (or become) a part of his life, he told them to call him Bucky. If they would.

He's never come across someone who already knew him as such, and who he instantly wished violently that they didn't have that knowledge. 

At least, not until he met this one particular person. An incredibly infuriating individual, who he didn't even _meet_ , not really; and Bucky has encountered quite a lot of those, so the fact this one sticks, well. Maybe the occurrence leading to the instance of their meeting is why.

_I've seen all the movie stars in their fancy cars and their limousines. Been high in the Rockies under the evergreens. I know what I'm needin' and I don't want to waste more time; I'm in a New York state of mind._

He was heading down a block on foot, trying to get used to things in Brooklyn again. Over the layers of recollection, how the streets of his childhood looked, intermixed with all of the intervening years that he hadn't been back - because Hydra never sent him into one of the boroughs on a mission, at least, not before his mission to destroy Fury. And Steve. It was as if they knew, or thought his memories might come back, stabbing through the alterations like shards of glass in insulation, exploding as if from an impact and slicing into his head. He feels that now, an unimaginable burst of agony manifests itself, spearing behind his eye. Unimaginable, except it's common for him. More common the longer he has remained here after Steve... Bucky staggers to the right, arm automatically rising to catch himself, the rest of him on alert for danger because he must be, always; he was trained to never let his guard down. Never to let himself be vulnerable.

Yet here he is, fingers of his metal arm sinking into the stone corner of a building as white spots dance in front of his eyes and he is suddenly pouring sweat.

"Hey, bud," a voice catches him off guard as he hauls in air and squeezes his eyes shut to mitigate the agony pounding through his head. "You all right?"

Bucky whirls, still clutching the building, eyes shooting open again. He spins with legs up, not thinking; makes a roundhouse kick, the way he had been trained to. Never leave yourself open to attack. Feet directly catch, thump into the chest of a guy in a hoodie, bright eyes and sort of bubbly looking skin, tall. Broad shoulders. He sits abruptly on the pavement, or rather is flung back with an "oof!" As he seems to have stepped out of a sort of dingy looking door just down from where Bucky stands.

*** 

Bucky drops, breathing hard, immediately torn between the necessity of apologizing and the white-hot instantaneous fear that he is going to be taken, captured. He had not thought, he'd simply reacted - and the person he's just dropped makes none of this easier to understand when he smacks his lips together and says in a slightly high tone "Wow, I've never been greeted with a roundhouse kick before, at least not on Tuesday. You related to Bruce Lee?" He coughs and raises his voice for the benefit of passersby who are standing in shock and are definitely not coming over, classic New Yorkers. "No worries, it's no problem, this is a stunt!" He calls out. "We're action stars, totally rehearsing a scene. In full make-up." He stands then, with a slight wince, and Bucky's eyes bulge as he sees indentations in the other's chest from his strength. He's certain this man is going to wheeze and lose air from a broken rib or cracked sternum constricting his lung, or something -

But "I'm Wade," he's grinning easily, but also it seems as if he's baring his teeth at Bucky, like he can tell the other man is broken, evil, a rabid wild animal beyond anyone's control. Bucky believes this of himself, he's known it to be true ever since he came back. Ever since Hydra. No matter what Steve, oh, Steve. His own chest twists and agony flares within as he thinks on his oldest friend. The only person who always stood by him, who was never scared of him, only for him.

Yet here this guy is, bright white teeth, muscle-bound. Would have a crew cut if it weren't for the rope like scars stretching over his face and head that seem to make hair growth impossible (opposite of Bucky's issue, he grows too MUCH hair) - he's holding out his hand like he wants Bucky to actually shake it and has cocked one hairless brow. " - are you going to introduce yourself and shake my hand or not, bucko? By rights I shouldn't even be here, but since I am, just want to say, I'm very big on polite introductions. I'm Canadian," he adds as if that explains anything. Bucky clenches his jaw, feeling as off-balance as humanly possible. Who is this guy?

"It's Bucky," he growls, blurts out the nickname without thinking, eyes flickering back and forth. He should not say his name like this to a complete stranger, what is he doing?! Cannot shake that feeling instilled within him, pounded into his head for decades - that he is not supposed to be known; even now. And yet he is supposedly famous, or infamous, rather, as the stares and whispers and photographs taken of him would suggest. But this ...guy, Wade, is standing here casually, as if he doesn't recognize Bucky and/or doesn't seem to mind the fact his chest had pretty much just gotten kicked in. In fact, he takes a deep breath and Bucky swears he sees the man's chest reconfigure without blemish. What the hell is this? He is sure someone would ask. Shuri would ask, or Steve. But not he, in his experience, it's often better not to inquire too much. A bitter taste in his throat precedes a burning scent, and it's as if he is being recalibrated again, the jolts of electricity stabbing through his brain -

...But this man is speaking to him, and he is standing on a sidewalk in new York City. He isn't being held against his will, not anymore. And a pair of eyes are looking into his with intensity, depth. He is almost afraid of what Wade will say, and is thus thrown when he does speak. 

"... Well Bucky of the steel blues where home is, you gonna shake hands civilized or are we going to go our separate ways after beating each other to a pulp in an alley? Because if you want to end me, there's a poll in there about how long it'll take me to die." He jerks his thumb back towards the door he had apparently exited, and adds "... I'm sure my buddy could use the cash if you wanna get on with kicking my ass." Asks almost sing-song, and Bucky has no idea what is going on, but he doesn't want to get mixed up in - this. Whatever it is. Something about this guy is screaming at him.

So he slides forward, reaching out quickly to shake his hand once before recoiling. "Pleasure," his teeth are gritted so hard his jaw creaks. It hurts, actually, and he really wants to make it back to his apartment and sit down. Or stand in the corner until he can get control. "Now get away from me. Please." He adds the last in an attempt at politeness, some semblance of social decency or norms, or... everything he feels so disconnected from, still. It was different, in Wakanda. He was assisted, not prodded, yet nor was he left alone. Shuri helped him, and Okoye, and even King T'challa when he could.

But here Bucky is alone, and he can bear kindness even less well than recognition, so practically runs with his head down, stumbling swiftly away as Wade lets out a bark of laughter.

"Ooh, feisty! I dig it. Maybe I'll see you around again, Bucky m' boy!" With a goofy wave and a grin to boot, Wade keeps walking. Not worried about the roundhouse kick or anything, unfazed and seeming to accept Bucky being all right enough to continue moving in the opposite direction. Bucky is dumbfounded, feels his heart stuttering as he ducks around a wall and tries to catch his breath, to calm himself.

This is the strangest day, certainly the strangest interaction, he has dealt with in a long time. A strange moment of time in New York, indeed.

_It was so easy livin' day by day out of touch with the rhythm and blues - but now I need a little give and take, the New York Times, the Daily News...._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there readers, I've been turning over the MCU in my head, and think there were some story threads that could stand to be unraveled after _Endgame_. I personally am unsatisfied with Bucky's ending in that film, apart from Steve, and want to write something more satisfactory for myself. The characters appearing in this story and their relationships may seem off the wall, but I hope you'll bear with me.
> 
> *Wade is exiting Weasel's place, which I've situated in Brooklyn, as I don't believe we were told the precise location in either of the _Deadpool_ films. If I'm wrong in that, feel free to let me know!
> 
> *Italicised lyrics from Billy Joel's incredible (in my opinion) ode to NYC entitled "New York State of Mind" are included in this piece
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.
> 
> Comments appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky lets himself into his place and hopes against hope that no one else is going to be back for a while so that he can get his buzzing reaction time and his head under control.

No such luck.

"Yo," he hears and then sees Sam, that ever-expressive face and insane amount of energy. Even after everything that happened. But after Steve... Bucky feels his throat click, tries desperately not to choke up, he was the Winter Soldier, come on - though that never meant he did not cry. Meant the opposite, actually, especially when his head was so empty and he knew it shouldn't be. 

But back to Sam, who'd said hello and now appraises him. The guy has always been suspicious, it seems. Never misses an opportunity to talk crap, even now. But after talking to Steve when he returned and accepting his shield, Sam somehow seemed to accept Bucky too. Not just to fight beside, and not simply for Steve's sake, either. Surely if that had been the case he might've used his influence as a counselor at the VA or something for a second, to send off for a place that Bucky could live and recover, and then leave him alone. But no. He'd set things up so Buck could actually live with him, here in Brooklyn; and when the ex-Hydra plaything, the most lethal ghost soldier of a generation asked why the hell Sam Wilson would want to be ROOMMATES with him, Sam simply shrugged.

His face was serious as he said "Don't want you to be alone."

Bucky still cannot fathom that, and it's been weeks. A couple months, actually. Sam doesn't get into his space, unless one counts the times that Bucky is sitting on the couch in silence and the guy comes in and turns on some sports game or TV show to watch. But he cooks, and leaves leftovers for whenever Bucky comes in to eat, and doesn't make a production of it, which honestly floors him. Because knowing the way Sam talks and would always joke with Steve, he figures he would be a lot more like Bucky once was. Brash. Flirty. Confident to the point of being a braggart, but - and he's seen this aspect in Sam too - always willing to do anything for Steve. Bucky almost cannot reconcile those aspects of himself, except for the last one, with who he is today. Still hasn't really figured himself out. Yet Sam is... he's somewhat like that, but also different.

"Hey," Bucky grunts at Sam in return, but closes his eyes and puts a hand to his head when his nod sends spikes of pain spiderwebbing across his forehead. He hates these headaches. Staggering he expects to catch himself, and is surprised to find Sam in front of him, arms extended.

"Migraine?" Sam has seen Bucky like this before, when the memories swamp his mind and take over so that all he can do is curl up somewhere with ice and darkness and wait for it to be over. "Want some help?" Sam asks, not touching Bucky without permission. Bucky wishes the accidental roundhouse kick of earlier was the only such incident he has suffered, but unfortunately he'd slammed Sam into a wall once when he touched Bucky without warning. But he's trying to help, he's always trying to help.

Bucky nods and breathes out through his nose, trying to let himself accept aid without fearing what will happen next. He knows Sam now, knows the guy has no ulterior motives (unless the love of Steve being one, but if that's the case, Bucky has that too). But he lets Sam lead him to the couch and nods again when Sam asks if it's his head, and if he'd like an ice pack. His head thumps back against the sofa and his eyes flutter shut as he feels Sam's presence return and then feels the rough weave of terrycloth laid across and cold weight of an ice pack on his forehead. 

Feels Sam settle into the cushions beside him and then a blanket is tossed over his body as Bucky kicks out of his shoes and tries to rest. 

Maybe he'll tell Sam about his odd encounter later, who knows? More than likely he won't volunteer, but Sam will probably ask him what's going on. All he knows presently is that he wants to avoid reality for a little while, and closes his eyes to hear the sound of the television turned incredibly low as Sam picks up the remote and turns it on. He stays settled beside, sticking around. 

Just like Steve, he continues to stick around, whether or not Bucky deserves it.

_It comes down to reality and that's fine with me 'cause I've let it slide._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I notice I've been writing a lot about migraines recently, probably because I suffer from them, ha. Not a picnic, but I've got the right medication, just like Bucky has Sam. Is Sam captain america here? You be the judge; I did mention him with Cap's shield, but I love him working at the VA as he did at the outset of _Winter Soldier_ so I think he'd still be doing.that. Maybe he's captain america when off-duty ;)
> 
> Comments appreciated


	3. Chapter 3

_Don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside; I don't have any reasons, I left them all behind..._

Bucky cracks an eye and sees low indigo light out the window warring with the flashes of blue and white on the screen of the silent TV. Sam isn't on the couch anymore, but Bucky finds himself stretched out far more than he had been upon initially sitting down. A blanket is tucked around his body completely, and he now hears a clanking sound from the kitchen. Twisting his neck and head back as well as around, he sees Sam over the back of the sofa, standing in the kitchen. Or rather, the guy is moving back and forth as he shifts objects around. "Hey," Sam says. "I made dinner. If, you know, you can eat that kind of thing." 

"Urgh," Bucky groans half-heartedly at the light and the comment. "I hate you." It's automatic, their antagonistic banter has continued far past the point of any reasonable interaction that would necessitate such behavior from either. There's no uncertainty about Bucky's side anymore, or the supplanting of an old friend with a new one (not that Steve had ever done that, it's just a consequence of being close to him; being a smaller celestial body in a sun's bright orbit). He was always like the sun, bright and shining and warm in his stubbornness and decency. His fiery strong nature had warmed the world, it seemed. At least for Bucky.

And as much as he hates to admit it to himself, and will never be caught doing so aloud, Sam is a lot like Steve in that way. He's got more clownish antics to go with it sometimes, which get on Bucky's nerves a bit, yet he is just as focused on the right things, on doing good for others. Precisely as much as Steve was. Makes sense why Steve had given him the shield; he can see the path of good and right. Bucky has been going down the wrong path for so long now that he's sure it has utterly obscured his sight.

Thinking on that "...Are there places in the city where it's become customary to bet on somebody dying, Sam?" Bucky slowly rises off the sofa and hangs the blanket over its back, moving slowly into the kitchen and squinting in the harsh light. He waits for the return of his headache pounding through his brain pan whilst accepting the bowl Sam offers him. Plans to try and wolf down as much food as he possibly can before the encroachment of pain. Maybe he can get down some painkillers too. He looks up as Sam turns off the overhead light and flicks on the bulb in the hallway instead, providing a softer glow so they can see their food but remain in semi darkness and thus makes it easier on Bucky's head. Bucky swallows, ducking his face. He is touched by the little gesture, how casual it is; and by the fact he has not felt the need to provide Sam a weapon to protect himself against Bucky of late.

He was so used to doing that; his Hydra handlers had always dictated he provide them with a weapon, because of his raw strength and power. He was a weapon too, and can hear Alexander Pierce saying they must have contingencies. Plans. _"Weapons can malfunction, you understand,"_ he said once before staring into Bucky's - the Winter Soldier's - eyes. _"...And we can't have that, can we?"_

No, sir.

Bucky had said that. As the Winter Soldier, he understood. He was lethal, dangerous, a killing machine. One day he would have to be stopped. But now, here, he wonders of the casual nature of such an end; how a friend could put money on another's demise. Even if it was in jest, but he had seen something flicker in Wade's eyes when the man spoke of the death bet, such as it was. Whatever it was. His expression sticks in Bucky's mind as strongly as the spikes of agony during the midst of his headache had, so much that he doesn't catch the beginning of Sam's response.

"...been to some places to talk to people, yeah," and Bucky, hands fisted on his hanks of hair, focuses on Sam.

"Come again?"

"Oh I'm sorry am I boring you by answering your question? Is it like that then?"

Sam isn't fully teasing, but his eyes are sparkling. So Bucky manages a huff, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, it's like that. I don't know, I met this guy who said there was a bet on his life, and I just wondered if those kinds of things are common or long-standing any place around here." 

"Why? You planning to get in on one?" Sam asks with a raised eyebrow.

Bucky turns his spoon in a circle by pushing it with one index finger. "Nah, I figured you'd have killed me already if you actually wanted to. Bet or not." 

He bunches up his lips and waits, gratified to hear and see Sam laugh.

"You're right about that. Okay, see there are some spots, I could probably show you if you wanted. But really, man, I have to know," he leans in, elbows resting on the edge of the kitchen table and dark eyes softening "Do you wanna get in on a fight club or put a bet on yourself dying or something? Because if there's something we need to talk about...,"

"No, it's nothing like that." Bucky thinks a moment. He does not actually know why he'd asked this of Sam. Guesses he finds it interesting in a fatalistic sort of way, like casual nihilism. Something he understands. And honestly despite the brief amount of time he spent in his company, Bucky is intrigued by Wade and the other man's assurance that he would see Bucky around. Sure, it could have been jokingly, but Bucky is not the sort of person to take those types of chances. If someone says they are going to see him, he takes precautions to ensure he sees that person first. 

But he doesn't explain all that to Sam. "I want to scope something out," he says instead. "Think you know enough about those sorts 'a places to take - to actually get me into some of them?"

Both of Sam's brows now lift. "James Barnes, are you asking me to take you out on the town, because I am in, homie!" Clapping his hands together he beams like this is the most perfect idea ever.

Bucky has to slow it down. "Okay, don't get too excited," he raises a hand, palm towards Sam. "I'm not asking you to take me ... clubbing, or anything."

"But you are asking me to take you somewhere, and that's some serious progress, Winter's Bone."

He's taken to calling Bucky names that are either references of some sort or variations of 'winter' and 'soldier'. He has already dealt with Frosty the Snowman, a name Bucky had been forced to research. Now he's going to need to look up this one. He cuts his eyes at Sam and finishes his food with a slight shrug of almost acquiescence. 

"Fine, if you say so." 

There isn't really anything else for him to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think these guys would have serious bantering abilities, and Sam certainly knows a great deal of references - from what I recall in his MCU debut film for sure. I find him absolutely hilarious. (And may have incorporated a bit of Anthony Mackie's word choices as himself into Sam because of how Mackie interacts with Sebastian Stan, Bucky's actor. Just watching their interactions and banter with one another in press tour interviews adds years on my life)
> 
> And Bucky out on the town looking for a place people bet upon their lives, ooh - should be interesting
> 
> Comments appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky is relieved to have no residuals of migraine the following morning.

He feels a trifle muzzy-headed, though, and knows he is going to shuffle out of his room bleary-eyed after rolling up from bed and picking up his arm from its place settled atop his dresser, the heft of metal heavy and cool, waking him a little more as he slides the padded shoulder socket place onto that portion of his anatomy. He uses his teeth and fingers to wrap and tug the belts around his neck and torso. Shuri has assured him (via incredibly exuberant text messages with pictures and emoticons that he is still striving to understand) that she is constructing an arm for him "stronger than metal and with all the capabilities of actual skin plus a supercomputer". Even as he swore up and down that she didn't need to reconstruct or revamp her previous design for him, Bucky knows the choice to do so is an invigorating challenge for her, as well as an enjoyable experience. For some reason, the Wakandan Princess enjoys assisting him, even when he is across an entire ocean living in Brooklyn.

Anyhow, he is grateful for the arm that he has. Grateful for everything he has. Even if he doesn't say so aloud to anyone, at least not any more (upon trying to thank Shuri before last she and her brother returned to Wakanda, she had shaken her head at him and said "There is no need to thank me, Bucky. I would do anything for you." She'd bit her lip and looked into his eyes with an enormous smile spreading across her slim face. "You are my brother, as much as T'challa is. But I like you better," she conspiratorially whispered after, and even remembering her words at this moment, long later, he feels a prickling in his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, sniffing, staving off emotions before going over to his dresser and tugging open its first two drawers.

Makes it out to the living area some minutes later, smoothing back his hair as he smells bacon and eggs and hears the gurgling of a brewing pot of coffee. Sam is always cooking, it seems. Bucky's been aware of that implicitly and explicitly since the first day they shared space. Sam comes in like it's his kitchen, well, it's theirs but he has the attitude of _'this is the place where I relax and make ART, homie'_ rather, he'd said that to Bucky when the slamming of the door to the oven had Buck pulling out a gun. "You shoot my roast and you're dead to me," Sam saying that, even as it made Bucky freeze at the dramatics - really he was so much like Steve in some ways, except Steve couldn't cook to save his life - but Bucky knew what Sam meant. That he needed a space. He needs a space. To relax and just ...to be.

Bucky understands that, he needs one too. Only issue is convincing himself that he deserves it.

He grunts a greeting at Sam, who's stirring scrambled eggs - or rather, whisking them, with a fork as he adds cheese and what he says are chives "You're gonna love this, you won't be sorry. Hey, you gonna come down to the VA today?" Sam always asks, even as he turns away and fries the bacon, flipping it subsequent to the sizzle and scooping eggs onto his pan with a flick of one wrist. Always acting nonchalant, as though he couldn't care less whether or not Bucky came.

He wants him to come, though; of course he does. Bucky reads that in the set of Sam's shoulders, the twitch of his eyebrows as he glances over his shoulder. 

"Told Cap he'd make me look good with the girl at the front desk if he ever showed up, and then apparently the only time he actually DID was after we both got dusted."

Bucky rolls his eyes and snorts. "Super dramatic, of course. That sounds like him." He goes over to the cabinets and takes down two coffee mugs, pulling out milk from the fridge and hauling over the sugar bowl as the coffeepot gurgles and splats itself into cessation. He wills his fingers not to clutch the terra-cotta mug too tight; vivid memories of glass-like shards flying in all directions after he'd gotten startled tumble through his head.

There are a lot of heavy-duty aspects of their apartment now.

"Hah!" Sam crows. "Nice. But yeah, I figured if you show, you can hang around the gym or whatever, and then we can go out for dinner and to whatever one of those places with the, uh. The kind you mentioned last night." Sam taps his fingertips on the mug Bucky hands to him, expelling a "thanks".

Bucky sips his own coffee from the other mug (it's black, which Sam teases him about "you know you don't have to keep up that mysterious evil ghost soldier image anymore, right? Live a little. Get yourself a little milk. Or at the very least some sugar," and he'd friggin winked when saying it). Bucky ducks his chin in a nod as he leans back against the kitchen counter. "Sure." He takes a second to register what Sam is currently saying as the guy leans in and raises his eyebrows, expectant. He's always up in Bucky's space, without touching him, but close - really dynamic in movement and personality.

"So you saying sure, like, you're gonna think about it? Or sure like there's no way in hell I'm coming to your bougie-ass veteran's group, Sam, what's wrong with you?"

Huffing air from his nose hard enough his grey cloth-covered chest heaves in dramatic fashion, Bucky rubs a hand across his scruff and then across the back of his neck. "You're never going to stop asking me to come," he mumbles, and it isn't a question, but Sam answers anyway, shovelling half of the quantity of cheesy eggs and crispy bacon on a plate as another hiss from the frying plan alerts him. 

Offers the plate to Bucky, beaming. "Nope."

Ugh. Bucky takes the plate and schools his features into blankness. He has done that so often over the years, sometimes to stop his thoughts, or hide what he was thinking. To try to get emotion under control, or more recently, to tamp down the panic that rises all the time he isn't certain what he is doing or willing or thinking. But if he goes, if he hears Sam...maybe he can stay by the door, no one's forced him to sit in a chair and talk about his feelings. Yet. "Right then. I'll come," he says softly, shoving egg and bacon into his cheeks instantly so Sam won't ask anything else of him. After all, his mouth is full.

But he should have known better. This is SAM. "Really?" He's friggin grinning, still, and he's clapped his hands together as Bucky grumbles out a "yes" dealing inwardly with Steve's appalled expression at him speaking whilst still masticating food.

But Sam, well he seems to be so honestly excited, almost validated, that Bucky doesn't even want to mock him for it. At least not too much. 

"Yeah, well. Be sure to keep your eyes peeled and look to the skies, Junior Birdman. Some porcine aviation may be happenin' soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah the ever-present banter continues (and I'm positive Shuri tells Bucky that he is her brother, and makes sure he knows that he's the best brother)
> 
> *Yes, Bucky is telling Sam that pigs might actually fly now that he's coming to his group at the VA. I can so easily imagine the dry tone of Bucky's voice on this  
> *Junior Birdman is a name from an air force song my grandfather would always sing to me. He graduated from the naval academy and taught pilots to fly
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Group therapy at the VA
> 
> Warning, death and traumatic occurrences and experiences in war discussed below

_I'm in a New York state of mind. Oh yeah it was so easy living day by day; out of touch with the rhythm and blues..._

It was so easy. Well, not easy in the sense of there being the distinct possibility of cracking or exploding, but Bucky has put his training into a compartment of his brain, locked up the memories until they're looking at him like fish in a tank, there but removed from his present. Doesn't have to feed the fish, they just stay in his memory tank and swim around. It was something multiple people had told him, including Sam when he barely mentioned once that he packed away se memories - the compartmentalization is a thing veterans do, it's a way that a lot of people try to cope with trauma. A defense mechanism, even if they don't realize they're doing it. 

But Bucky knows what he's doing. And he recognizes even more, sees clearer the longer he stays in this room listening to Sam and to the stories of the people who come to see him.

They'd been reticent, at first. First group stood off, angled themselves to watch him when he came in, when Sam introduced. Even when he told them he'd been in combat too. Eyes travel up and down his body and his arm, and then there's sullen silence before Sam starts the meeting.

Bucky learns some appreciation for Sam that day, or finds it, as the guy is funny and gentle with people. He coaxes out their stories, but only what they want to, feel comfortable to tell; he gets talking about baggage and how it can transform into stories, into memories. Softer things, less weighty. "But it remains baggage the less you talk or think or even if you just let it be inside yourself, just have it hang in there like a curious spider monkey." There are some light laughs in response, a few nods.

"Even if I wanna take my 60 and blow its fuckin' head off, sir?" Asks one gruff soldier. 

Sam looks at him with a smile. "Yes Rich, even if you want to fix yourself some roasted spider monkey."

Chuckles are louder as a few of the people around Rich slap him on the arm or leg, or pat his shoulders. They're easy with touches, nobody seems ready to leap out of their skin, not the way Bucky does. He inhales sharply through his nose as Sam asks "...but Rich you know I gotta ask you here. What in particular makes you want to blow the head off your spider monkey?"

Rich, grey-speckled beard lowering into his chest as he works his fists, responds "Aw it's the way he looks at me, of course; c'mon Sam." When Sam nods but continues waiting, encouraging nonverbally with a nod to show he is listening, the older man sighs. "...looks like a buddy I had in the regiment," he gets out. Voice a low rumbling. "He was this little gooney looking fella, huge ears, smile always stretching full across his face. You always heard him laughing about something whenever he was awake. And when he was asleep he made the wackest fuckin' noises you ever heard. Like hhhoSH - WHEE!!! Every single night, man. And if I was on watch I'd have to crawl over all the other guys to get him to shut up, smack him and whisper down by his face 'psst hey don't make no more fuckin' noises' and he'd just say right back calm as the world 'you gotta eat more, stop drinking so much before watch man, you're hearing things'. He'd always tell me stupid shit like that. Tried to carry extra gear, he was bout a hundred pounds but he'd come up to help me with the ammo for the pig, M60, y'know. 'I got this' like he'd even be able to stand up with one of them belts on him. I just told him 'no you've got your rucksack and ammo, go on with that and shut the fuck up'. Always wanting to prove something." 

Bucky smiles into his lap even as his chest twinges painfully. The way this fellow Rich talked about his friend reminds Bucky painfully of Steve. Not even just how he was in the military, because that was simply an extension of his words and deeds of childhood. But Bucky recalls now when they were kids, how Steve would keep coming back in to a fight, how he'd always want to help Bucky haul groceries or something in, when he saw him coming home from the store with his ma. But no one could help out at Steve's house, he was always doing it. Was like pulling teeth to get him to let someone, anyone help him. Even Bucky. _"You don't have to be alone,"_ he had said. Remembers that, so clearly. Despite everything, every memory and thought Hydra ripped away. _"Steve, I'm with you to the end of the line."_

He comes clawing up out of his reverie, almost unwillingly as he hears Rich still talking. 

"...close to the other guys, I mean you gotta be, you know? They were keeping you outta body bags and all. But wasn't like with him, that little fella was something else. I loved that kid. And then - one day we were on a track, sweeping the road back to base. Starting handing supplies outta truck for camp and all. I jumped into the brush and he said he'd put sacks down. 'get that, throw me the pep, man, you know we gotta have that shit -' pepperoni, we had some actually decent rations for once." Rich smiles, but there is heartbreak in his eyes, and even before he speaks again Bucky feels his stomach drop into his shoes. "I climbed back in the track, and he - he'd stepped where I'd landed, grabbed the bag I put down -" Rich is shaking as he spreads his hands. "there's this sound like a big POOF y'know, and thuds and - it was an explosive. Under the brush. Went off, and I jumped -" he is croaking, eyes filling and hands shaking. "I'd been in the same spot. Same exact spot, but it didn't get me. Got Petey." He's trying to smile again, but everyone knows what it really is now. It's pain "And he's still there in my head, just... looking at me."

There are murmurs, and nodding, and some more leg pats and shoulder touches. "It's the guilt that's there," Sam speaks, his dark eyes more liquid brown than usual, and if Bucky could pay attention he would see wet tracks on his cheeks. "But you know it's not your fault he isn't here," and even as Rich nods and looks away, he says what Bucky feels about everything he has done, what he knows and remembers, speaking the selfsame sentiment:

"I may not 've pulled a trigger or sprung the plate to blow that bomb just then but it doesn't fucking matter."

"Right, it doesn't matter in your mind. Guilt is guilt, even if you've misplaced it."

"That's right."

"And you loved him, you felt responsible for him."

"Didn't just feel it - I WAS responsible for him. He needed me. And I couldn't save...," Rich is almost whimpering, but controls his voice as best he can, sucking back tears and lifting his face to stare at Sam. "I didn't even get to bury him, to say goodbye. Couldn't send, ship him back home to his family. There was - there was nothing left."

Bucky feels an icy fist close around his heart. He is rigid, unmoving. It is as though he cannot breathe, and is not clear on whether or not he breathes again for the remainder of the group session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rich is in my mind a veteran of the war in Vietnam, and his words about a friend are inspired by/close to the words of an actual veteran quoted in Jonathan Shay's spectacular book _Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character_.  
> This book takes an incredibly in-depth look at the struggles of veterans, the intimacy they create when in war with their comrades, and the deep psychological wounds that both accompany the physical and exist even for veterans without any physical wounds from war when they return home. 
> 
> I have such respect for the men and women who fight for their countries, even as I wish they didn't have to; and want so much more assistance for them when they come back. Both to assist with mental and physical trauma
> 
> *Track = track vehicle, like an armoured car/truck that soldiers drove down paths to search for mines and other explosives in the jungle  
> *M60/pig = enormous machine gun that weighs a heck of a lot, fires 7.65 mm rounds (balls, armor piercing, etc) and has a firing range of more than a thousand yards/metres. Big guys carried this to fight and on patrol in Nam and they are still used today.
> 
> Comments appreciated always <3


	6. Chapter 6

_But now I need a little give and take_

Bucky is standing upright, now, and has started shaking. Roaring in his ears supercedes any other sounds, and he finds himself leaning against a wall. He manages, just barely, to register footsteps coming up to him and the closing of a door at a little distance.

"Bucky," it's Sam's voice, quiet, without any of his usual wit or humor present. "Hey, I'm sorry about that, man. I should've told you...,"

"No," Bucky sniffs, shakes his head, hair swinging with the abrupt and violent movement. "No, it's - that's what you do, it's your job. I know you get people to talk. I don't -" he blinks hard, bounces on his feet and raises his eyes up to study the ceiling, not looking at Sam. His voice lowers to a mumble. "Besides, what does it matter how I feel about what that, um, Rich said? He loves his friend, he misses his friend."

"So do you, Bucky." Sam's voice catches, almost breaks on the words even as he speaks gently. "So do I."

"Yeah, right." Bucky croaks, wipes his face, nods sardonically. "Do I have just as much right to mourn as he does? No. Hell no. Come on, Sam, you know everything I've done. He's got real memories, and pain, and I -"

"Hey, whoa, it isn't your fault that you don't remember." Sam is shifting now, Bucky feels the movement and hears it, can tell the other man is stepping into his space. He isn't cornering him, though, and he knows Bucky doesn't like to be touched without warning. But his voice is dark and fierce as he says "It's not your fault, what happened to you. What all was done. Look at me, man, come on."

Bucky blinks, jaw clenches. He shakes his head, closes his eyes. He cannot do it. He had seen condemnation in too many eyes - in Tony Stark's, and in Sam's, before. May sound soothing now but the only face that Bucky wants, feels that he could currently look into, is Steve's. Steve has never condemned him, when Steve looks into his eyes, he somehow appears... grateful. Bucky would like to think, to entertain the delusion that he still deserves that sort of gratitude, even for a second.

But Steve isn't here. Bucky cannot look into his eyes, and never will again.

No matter what he had always told his oldest friend to the contrary, in this moment and this place, Bucky really is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is dealing with a lot and this is incredibly sad. I feel awful for putting so much heartbreak here but I also think the loss and self-hate, the feeling of not deserving to feel certain emotions, well, with what Bucky went through, I think that would be realistic.
> 
> But no matter what he thinks or how he feels, I promise that he is not truly alone. No one is. My love to you all
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky stays near the door for every meeting after that, clenching and unclenching his fists and willing his body not to bolt. Because honestly, whenever he had run, his instinct was to keep running. The impulse to leave everything, to be apart from everyone, is incredibly strong and remains so.

Only time in recent memory, or in the memories he's.cobbled together for himself now, fragile and imperfect as they are - the only place.he hadn't gotten the impulse to flee from was Wakanda. There he had been safe, as ever he could be. Protected, preserved. He was the white wolf, not the winter soldier. Still a title, even as he strives to think in smaller terms, to allow himself a pack of weight, of importance. To let himself be a human rather than a monster, a flawed creation formed to hunt and hurt and kill; in Wakanda he was both less and more.

He was a friend to the princess and friendly with the king; an old soldier without an arm rather than a ghostly killing machine. He misses that ease, that freedom. The feeling of Shuri and the children braiding his hair, teaching him how to twist a knot and tie up a bun on his own; to fish and weave and work with his hands enough to sell wares in the market (though he always gave away his little works, braided bracelets and necklaces with little metal or clay stars; how he carried jugs for the people going for sweetwater or something, and how he could carry three or more enormous parcels on his back or in one hand. His only hand. How he somehow felt whole, more than he had since before going to war, even as he had no prosthetic arm, for Shuri kept it and did her work on it. He realizes how much he misses her, and wants to talk to her, at the moment that someone in Sam's group says something about writing to people out in the world and not hearing back, and Bucky's heart goes into overdrive as he feels as if he's drowning in a sudden burst of sweat. 

Because he thinks of Shuri, and of Steve, and T'challa too, Okoye, Nakia (who honestly frightened him a little, or a lot, whenever she showed up in Wakanda and he happened to meet her when being shown around by the head of the guard) and of course Okoye had pressed her lips together and laughed inside, Bucky was sure.

But he thinks about them now, and wonders if he oughtn't try contacting them, and then the surety that hearing from him is nothing they would want, that taking care of and being kind to him was on behalf of the King of Wakanda respecting Steve so fiercely that they had bonded in the midst of turmoil. And Shuri, she cared because of wanting to use her knowledge to help him... Surely if they knew everything he had done - 

Bucky feels something hard and cold in his hand, feels the shift and crunch and recognizes that he is crushing the phone he had been given yet still does not fully understand, the window to other parts of the world and to the people he is unclear when thinking upon at present. He pushes the phone into his pocket and folds his arms under his armpits, moving out of the room to lean upon a wall and breathe. His heart continues pounding, and he hasn't a single clue how long he remains standing until he hears Sam speak close to his side.

"Hey man, you good? Want to get outta here for dinner before I show ya the betting spot ya wanna check out?"

It has been a full day, the center is closing for the night as it is five pm, and it's time most folks head to dinner in New York terms, especially because taxis and cars are going to be filling every road in minutes.

Bucky takes a breath and smoothly stands, pushing away everything he is feeling. He can do this, he can get some supper with Sam. Can act like a functioning person for a while, surely; long enough to eat and hopefully locate this life-betting place without too much trouble. Honestly though, he isn't sure. Thoughts nag at the back of his head, coming down to his current reality. Can he handle this? Dare he let it slide? Bucky swallows hard and focuses on Sam - his white shirt, steady stance, hearty words. Easy slide of jacket across his shoulders and solid presence beside him. If Sam can handle him, surely Buck can handle himself tonight. He nods, falling into step. Tries not to hunch down, to close off; attempts valiantly to remain present in this place, in this moment.

It's what every person has to do, it's all one can do whilst simply living in the world, right?

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bucky is feeling really low, he's having a hard time. I think he would still feel as though he does not fit, that he cannot relate to others, which is something I've learned occurs to veterans. Adjusting to civilian life can be an incredible struggle


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic description at the start of this chapter - brief but there

It's something to focus on: movements, the swinging gait of legs striding, stepping strong and easy. Bucky has always had a resilient body, been limber and strong even when in agonizing pain, when his arm was broken so badly into pieces so jagged and torn there was nothing but bloody pulp and meat and bone...

He shakes his head, dark locks of hair slapping his skin, thrashing, almost, in his face as he clenches the hand that's cold and hard and so much stronger than anything, a part of him, even as it is not human... He hears in his head a young voice, surprised, feels the residual remembered shock of a cloth-covered hand grasping his flying fist without any trouble at all _"Whoa, you've got a metal arm?! That's awesome, dude!"_ his mind still pinwheels through every iteration of what the hell is that, was that, whenever he recalls those moments. Of himself leaping before a flung vehicle, thousand pounds of metal and rubber and wiring, diving into Sam and rolling with him, body wrapped around as a shield, getting Sam to safety.

Sam. Bucky looks at him now, in a t-shirt and jeans and jacket, no goggles, no wings. Nothing of the Falcon or a captain, as he's put Steve's shield somewhere in their place and hasn't talked about it. His forehead seems smooth, but there are the tiniest creases around his eyes, and the way he carefully glances over makes Bucky snort and roll a shoulder, leaning slightly into, closer to him.

"I'm okay, Sam," he utters, voice deep and rough, nearly lost in the swishing of tires and the honking of horns, so much movement along the sidewalks. But Sam hears, of course he does. He cocks his brow and his mobile facial features tell Bucky as plain as day that he isn't buying it.

"Really, man? Because I'm not gonna push you, but you do know I'm here if you need to talk about something. I mean, we're going to grab some mm, dish," he makes a kissing motion of his lips to the tips of his fingers before grinning. "...so this is homies being homies and helping each other, or at least it _can_ be if you actually wanna open up." He whips out his phone, a thin black thing that Bucky still cannot quite wrap his mind around, it's a supercomputer in a hand, and taps in something. "You at least gotta tell me what you're up for food-wise. I'm thinking Italian because I know they don't do my New Orleans roots justice here, baby. No offense to the city, but mi casa es something else." He's bright and laughing, but his eyes don't look away from Bucky's.

The other shrugs, pushes some hair behind his ear and gets out "Italian is... fine," because really, what he knows about food at this point is, whatever gives him enough energy is good enough. No matter the taste, texture, or from where it hails. 

But Sam's brow line lowers, drawing in as he clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh, you can't just get away with calling something 'fine' on me. You're fine, but food is not fine. Food needs to be delectable, or great! How you feel about a pizza? Burger? Linguine?" He keeps his eyes on Bucky's face and adds "...or are you in the mood for a big cut of steak? Honestly, yeah, why don't we do that? Let's party, you had a rough time listening to all my groups today, I know it, and you had a migraine. Need a lotta calories, so. Steak and potatoes and onion rings...ooh get some salad as well. I know just the place, and I'll grab myself some fish while we're at it. C'mon Buck!"

He has the movement where it seems like he's going to grab Bucky by the sleeve and physically tug him down the street, but thankfully on Bucky's part abstains, simply beckoning him and then giving a piercing whistle for the nearest cabdriver. Guy hesitates the briefest instant, but Sam flashes his military ID card - Bucky doesn't know how he does it, so swift and suave with an easy smile, letting people be taken aback or feel embarrassed or grateful or however they are going to feel as he rests a hand on Bucky's metal shoulder and says "My buddy's a vet too." Easy, quiet. Stopping the looks by speaking as he does, though not the unease. Buck is certain that's never going to go away. 

He is baffled enough to have Sam always here, so casually mentioning not only that they are both soldiers, veterans, but _friends._ He still doesn't comprehend how he deserves the trust and care, at first begrudgingly bestowed but now warm and real, upon him by Sam. Doesn't think he's ever going to deserve it fully, but he can get a meal with his... buddy tonight, and it doesn't feel as though the world is ending as he settles by Sam's side in the cab, even as he makes sure his door is unlocked and his hand rests.on the handle in case he has to throw himself out, duck and roll through the traffic to go. But, he reasons, there is no trouble here.

Not for once, not yet.

_The New York Times, the Daily News - whoa, oh, oh whoa whoa. It comes down to reality and it's fine with me...._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Reference to New Orleans because Anthony Mackie is from that area in real life, and I figure Sam can be too :) incidentally jambalaya (seafood or sausage or veg, whatever works) is the bEST oh man
> 
> Comments appreciated


	9. Chapter 9

The steak joint Sam takes them to looks like it'll be spilling out the door with all the people inside. Place is packed to bursting, and Bucky doesn't register how he stops before the door, but suddenly he feels leather under his skin and a warm hand over his own and Sam is speaking (softly, at least for him) "...You gonna be okay, Snow?"

 _Snow._ One of his multiple ridiculous nicknames. Bucky blinks and scoffs, heaving air into his chest as he works his fingers so he isn't squeezing too hard on Sam's arm. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, sweeping back his hair with a sharp movement, eyes flickering over the tables with kids running around yelling and a bunch of guys looking like they've come from Wall Street to watch some sports game. Bucky settles his shoulders and tries hard as he can for a grin. "'S just steak and drinks, right? Nothing to it."

Sam looks at him and there is so much in his eyes that Bucky really does not want to try unpacking right now. But Sam merely smiles, patting his forearm as he says "Exactly. I got you," as they move and come through the door of the place, letting go of one another, Bucky flexing his fingers one by one. As they are asked how many in their party "Two," Sam says to the hostess, he adds "Is there a spot a little quiet with good view?" She nods, and with Sam's effortless flirty smile he adds "Great, we'd like that then."

"Right this way," she leads them through the cacophony only glancing the once at Bucky as his eyes pan across the restaurant looking for exits and possible threats. No matter how much he tries, he cannot keep himself from ascertaining every option for egress and enemies. He tries for a smile to the hostess as she shows them a little booth in the back of the space, separated from the biggest tables by the hall that leads to the restrooms and kitchen. Sam slides easily into the nearer seat, leaving Bucky with his back to a solid wall and his face open to the room. "Your server will be with you shortly," she says with a smile on return as she puts menus and silverware down on the table for them.

"Thanks,"

"Thank you,"

Speaking in unison, which happens for the pair more often than they (or at least Bucky) would care to admit; he mustn't get too damn comfortable. He knows that. The last - the only - person he'd spoken with like that, had such rapport with was Steve. _Steve..._ Bucky hauls in a heavy breath as Sam smiles at the hostess. The erstwhile Winter Soldier registers how he himself has frozen, hand clenched around the padded backing of the booth, and shakes himself into moving again and lowering himself to sit. 

As Bucky lowers himself, Sam transfers his easy expression from the departing hostess to him. Bucky's eyes flicker to and then away with a slight inclination of his head. "Ah. Thanks for -" he lifts his fingers and gestures minutely at both the room at large and the place where they're sitting. Sam hadn't said a thing about Bucky needing 'to get out of weapon mode' or deal with the world or realize he's not at war anymore. He'd just known how Bucky would be and is over here nodding to him and making sure he can see the entire room. 

"Told you I gotchu," is all Sam says before rubbing his hands together and pulling his menu over. "Now the steak here is to die for, or maybe kill if you're more into that," his eyes are twinkling now and Bucky lets out a huff and rolls his eyes.

"Oh shut up."

"Okay, okay, well I just wanted to get this straight, homie," he looks so genuinely excited about this place, about eating.with Bucky and instantly adds "We're gonna need a bunch of starters," which he proceeds to list the second their server shows - after introducing himself, of course. 

Buck begins to settle, if not to relax, feeling sweat dry on his neck and between his shoulder blades as they order drinks and share some mozzarella sticks and jalapeno poppers. Bucky is staring askance at the stringy cheese that extends in loops and catches on his cheeks, chin, and even in his hair. His pallette was sorely neglected for years (is how Sam put it even as he laughs and offers the other man a napkin) "Musta been, it's not like you were going round the world to eat fine cuisine!" So he sloughs through the entire menu to find everything amazing "New York is a melting pot, and we're gonna put it _down_ , y'know what I'm sayin'?" At Bucky's sharp look, "Oh don't worry, we'll find your fight club buddy later on tonight."

He seems primed and ready for Buck to squint and ask, hair falling away from one side of his face as he cocks his head with a long blink and demands

"What the hell even is a fight club?"

Sam dramatically hushes him and pats the air, leaning forward. "We're not supposed to talk about it, but I maaay be able to tell ya," and he's got that glint in his eyes that lets Bucky know

"...This is another one of your damn references that I'll have to look up, isn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well nothing like a couple of buddies eating everything off the menu ;) I mean Sam is going to make sure Buck gets to have a good time, and by that, to eat everything he wants  
> Poor. Bucky getting teased - but Sam looks out for him too; the need to keep one's back to something solid and be able to see the door and the entire room is a very real response to trauma of combat. As is automatic threat assessment. 
> 
> Anyhow, I'm back with this, it's been a bit! Hope everyone is faring well
> 
> Comments appreciated :)


End file.
